


The Fine Line (Between Personal and Professional)

by theredspool



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, F/M, Jealous Clint, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 17,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1618904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredspool/pseuds/theredspool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Natasha go undercover as husband and wife. Clint lets his emotions run the show.</p><p>Based on this gifset: http://tinyurl.com/k8gv29c and inspired by the lovely users over at ONTD and ontd_assemble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Business As Usual

**Author's Note:**

> I began this long ago on LJ, then moved it to ff.net, and I figure it's time to move it to where all the best Avengers fanfic lives. (Not that this is the best, but it's pretty cute.) I don't own the Avengers, don't sue me, yadda yadda. Enjoy!

It was business as usual for Natasha—read the file, memorize the information, start the mission.

It was relatively simple. The typical undercover gig: assumed identity, a short-term stay in some new city with a partner watching her back. Fury had asked her to introduce Rogers to spy work, and it seemed he intended to throw him into the deep end, head-first: Rogers was to accompany her, acting as her husband.

It wasn't a hard job—she could handle working and training simultaneously—but she couldn't imagine Rogers _acting_. He was so honest and wholesome. It was precious and sort of quaint, in Natasha's opinion, but he was hardly spy material. He was a soldier though-and-through.

Like Clint.

Well. Maybe she could work with that.

She skimmed the folder a second time and glanced up at Captain Rogers. His brow was furrowed as he read; he looked serious and concerned and earnest as hell. He looked up at Fury, who glared back expectantly. "Question, Captain?"

"Well, Sir," Rogers began. Natasha could see the blush rising in his cheeks already. "If Miss-Agent Romanoff and I are supposed to be a married couple...does that mean we're meant to share a house? And...a bed?"

"Cap, behind closed doors I'm sure you can have your own bed," Fury said sardonically. "But yes, you will be living with Agent Romanoff for the duration of the mission." Rogers looked uncomfortable. He glanced at Natasha. "Agent Romanoff, um, I don't want you to feel compromised in your, uh, modesty. If we share quarters, I mean." He stopped, looking unsure of how to proceed.

Only Natasha's extensive spy training could maintain her (rather impressive) poker face in this moment. "Captain Rogers. This is hardly my first rodeo. And please," She put a hand on his wrist and looked straight into his eyes. "My modesty is definitely not a concern. Although I appreciate your respect for my personal space and comfort." She did mean it—it was nice to be treated like a lady now and again, rather than a sexless agent or a femme fatale.

He blushed (predictably) and nodded, smiling sheepishly. Natasha wondered briefly if he was a virgin, or if it was just his old-school values that made him uncomfortable with the idea of living with a woman he's not married to. Both, probably, her mind supplied.

They returned the files to Fury and Captain Rogers paused to open the door for Natasha. In the hall, she could feel him behind her, clearly working his nerve up to say something.

"Miss R-Agent Romanoff," He started nervously. "I mean no disrespect to you in the least-you're a beautiful and capable lady," She could practically hear him wince—clearly he had wanted to say something less personal. "But I have to tell you. I never really planned on living with a woman who wasn't my wife, and..." The end hung there lamely, full of uncertainty and discomfort at how his antiquated (if well-meant) values fit into this twenty-first century world.

Natasha paused with her back to him and felt him tense behind her. She almost felt guilty; she hadn't dug him out of the ice and reanimated him personally, of course, but she couldn't help but feel bad at the sheer culture shock and disorientation Rogers must be feeling. _Not to mention the fact that everyone he's ever loved is dead. That much I can sympathize with_.

"Well, Captain," she said as she strode away. "You have nothing to worry about. As of next Tuesday at oh-six-hundred hours, I _am_ your wife."


	2. Mr. and Mrs.

Clint was waiting for her in the training center. "What's on the schedule, Nat?" He was already decked out for a sparring session.

"You know I can't tell you that, Clint," Natasha said seriously.

They held each others' gaze for a moment, then smiled broadly. They didn't _really_ keep things from each other—not since Budapest. Plus, Clint had high-security clearance. It was a basic mission, hardly cause for secrecy.

Natasha stretched deeply on the mats, rolling out the tension in her shoulders. "It's nothing really. Fury has me training Captain Rogers for SHIELD agenthood. We'll be undercover for about two weeks in Chicago as newlyweds. Basic stuff."

Clint paused in his own warm-up. "Rogers and you? On a mission?"

"I know, I was thinking the same thing. I don't really think the Captain is cut out to be a covert _anything_ , but an assignment is an assignment, and you know how Fury gets when anyone questions him."

Clint hummed noncommittally and cracked his knuckles.

"Oh, it was the sweetest thing—he got all nervous and gentlemanly about our sharing an apartment during the mission. I feel like I'll scare the poor guy just by being in the same ten foot radius!" She laughed and bent over to feel the familiar stretch in her hamstrings. "Twenty bucks says he'll start knocking before he comes into the _kitchen._ " She flipped her head up, grinning, but Clint looked stern. "What? You look mad."

Clint's face relaxed slightly. "Nothing," he got into fighting stance and smirked. "That's my resting face. Ready?"

~

"Now, the flight leaves in forty minutes," Agent Hill handed them the tickets. "I'm sure that you're all very familiar with your assignment and your cover story."

Natasha nodded brusquely. Rogers gulped.

Agent Hill smiled at Rogers. "Not to worry, Captain Rogers. You're working with one of our top operatives. This is all very routine recon-I expect you'll even have some fun! All set?"

Natasha nodded again and Agent Hill opened the door to the SUV, letting the sunlight stream in. "Good luck Agents. We'll expect your communication later on."

They emerged from the dark car with their luggage looking decidedly un-Agentlike: Natasha had dyed her signature red hair a common brown. Rogers' hair was shorter and untidy...and he was wearing _cargo shorts_.

"Are you sure it's normal to be showing my legs?" Rogers looked down, shifting from foot to foot.

"Captain," Natasha looked up at the list of departing flights. "You wear a skintight suit to fight crime. I really didn't expect shorts to be a problem for you." She glanced back and lifted an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at her lips. Rogers blushed.

They got through security easily enough; Natasha noticed the young TSA officer smiling shyly at an oblivious Captain Rogers. _He's hopeless,_ she shook her head and smiled, offering her ticket and her new identification.

~

The flight was brief, but Captain Rogers could (ironically) sleep anywhere and did so despite his apparent nerves.

When they landed, a car was already waiting for them in the long-term parking lot. Natasha produced the keys from her purse and got in the driver's seat. "I suppose we're going to have to teach you to drive next, Captain."

"I know how to drive," he looked slightly annoyed. "At least, I knew back then."

Natasha glanced sideways at him as she pulled out of the space. He was staring at his hands and looking pained. She put the brake on and put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up into her face—his stare was direct, but not unkind.

"Ready to go home, Mister Walker?" she joked, patting his arm and turning back to the wheel.

She saw him smile a little and lean back into the seat. "As ready as I'll ever be...Mrs. Walker."


	3. El Diablo

The apartment was decked out—it was well-situated in a nice-but-not-suspiciously-nice neighborhood. It had wide windows, wood floors, and a rooftop deck, and the false bottoms in the coffee table and the back of the wardrobe held as many good firearms as they could have hoped for.

Captain Rogers was sitting on the window ledge and looking out at the city as Natasha unpacked her things. They sat in silence for a half an hour, Natasha looking up at him every so often as she hung clothes in the wardrobe. Finally, she broke the silence: "How's the view?'

He glanced back at her and smiled wanly. "Different," he shrugged. "I admit, I've never been to Chicago before today, but I can see how different it must be since anyone I would've known lived here."

"Yes, it is. I've seen a few photos from back then. The buildings are a bit taller these days," she said lightly, smiling.

He smiled back. "Yeah, just a little bit." He stared at her for a moment. "I like your hair brown."

Natasha wasn't expecting this. She reminded herself not to preen. "Do you? Thanks...I've always thought I looked too pale with my hair dark."

"No. It's pretty. You remind me of a lady I knew." She knew who he meant, and was pleased that he said it without any bitterness or anger. "Not just because of the hair, of course, but the resemblance is closer now." He rose from the ledge and swung his suitcase onto the bed, sliding the zippers open. "So, we're married. You're Ellie."

"And you're Alex," Natasha confirmed. "But you don't have to call me that here. You don't have to call me 'Agent Romanoff' or "Ma'am", either. Natasha is fine."

"Thanks...Natasha," He weighed her name on his tongue. "And, please, you can call me Steve. Just Steve. Hearing people call me 'Captain' or 'Agent' is kind of odd anyway-I feel like I'm back on stage, playing a part."

"Well, that's good! That's exactly what we have to do here."

"That's a good point." He smiled again, looking boyish. "I have to admit, this is all incredibly new to me. I mean, I've done covert operations before, but it was search-and-rescue, and it was to find my best friend. I had the determination rolling behind me like a freight train." He laughed affectionately, like he was looking at the face of someone familiar. "Not like this-this is all so delicate. And I've never been graceful, Natasha."

She can see now why he was such a hit back in his heyday. Sure, Natasha had seen the films, but she hadn't sensed the innate charm of self-deprecation in the gritty film reel. He was sweet and genuine, and the reason he had been so effective was because he truly meant every word he said—the spirit of them, at least. He was easy to trust.

Natasha was not the kind of person to trust easily, but Steve was like a child in many ways. Everything was new; he had no room for dishonesty or double-crossing in himself. Perhaps that was why Fury had placed them together.  _Sneaky bastard,_ she smirked.

"Hey, what's so funny?" He looked mock-offended. "Not all of us can be prima ballerinas!"

"You asked around about me?" Natasha cocked an eyebrow and gave him a penetrating look. He looked away quickly.

"Not exactly. I just read a little bit of your background. I figured I should know more about you if we're supposed to be close enough to be married." He looked back at her and shrugged. "I suppose you knew everything about me before they even chipped me out of that ice, huh?"

She ignored that. It was true, but that wasn't the way to encourage closeness with a fellow agent. "I didn't dance long enough to be a true ballerina. I was off the pro-level track by puberty, for obvious reasons." She raised her eyebrows and smiled inwardly when Steve glanced down at her chest and looked down immediately.

"I like ballet. Bucky always made fun of me for it, but my mom and I would go before she passed on," He folded his clothes very tidily, Natasha noticed. Almost reverently. "It's something you can get lost in, because there aren't any words to follow. It's all motion and music. Sometimes I would draw the students at the local dance school when I was a kid. Good practice. Helps you loosen up."

Natasha didn't know this part, which surprised her. "You draw?"

"Yeah," He didn't look sheepish or arrogant-it was matter-of-fact. "I was always pretty good at it, but when the war came around I felt sort of stupid sitting around drawing pictures while people were dying, y'know?"

"Sure." She sat on the bed and leaned back on her elbows. "So, do you want the bed or the couch?"

Steve looked taken aback. "Of course I'll take the couch! That will be more than comfortable enough for me. The bed's all yours."

"You sure? We can switch off, if you like." She could already tell that the couch was far too narrow for him, but she knew he was too gentlemanly to say so.

"No, seriously. The couch is just fine. Plus, I've slept much worse places."

"So have I," she replied. "But I'll let you be the gentleman this time. Are you hungry? You must be."

"Starving," Steve admitted. "Do you know anyplace good around here?"

"I've only been in Chicago a couple of times, but I'm sure there's somewhere that delivers. What do you like?"

~

"Are you nervous for tomorrow?" Natasha asked as she polished off the rest of her egg roll. Steve had eaten an entire quart of Lo Mein and a plate of General Tso's chicken (Natasha had ordered for him, and was pleased that he'd liked it so much). "If you are, it definitely isn't affecting your appetite," she teased.

"Ha-ha," Steve rolled his eyes. "Nothing affects my appetite anymore—the serum made that pretty impossible."

"Most people would kill for your metabolism," Natasha drew her knees up to her chest. They had watched some old movie on cable. Natasha hadn't known it (although she recognized Jimmy Stewart*), but Steve seemed to enjoy it a lot. ("You know, I saw this movie in the theater," he'd pointed out, gesturing with his fork—he couldn't get a handle on the chopsticks, even after an extended lesson from Natasha.) He looked proud, which was a change. Steve was usually retiring about his connection to the past.

"Yeah, I'm sure they would," Steve sounded like he'd heard it a million times before. He paused, reflecting at the plate in his lap. "I'm a little nervous. I know what to do, but I just don't want to let anyone down."

Natasha tilted her head. "That's not unreasonable. No one wants to disappoint people. But you know what you're doing-just because you're more used to open battle doesn't mean you can't try something different."

"That's true. After all, you went from ballet to spying yourself!" He smiled, but Natasha didn't. The ballet had been part of the training.  _Вы должны двигаться, как ветер в деревьях,_  he had said. Like the wind—silent and capable of moving through any space or obstacle. It had been like a bad kung-fu movie, hadn't it? Except the enemy was the people who made her. "I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"

Natasha met Steve's eyes; he looked apprehensive. "Oh," she relaxed her face into an easy smile-the first thing you learn to fake in this line of work. "No, definitely not. I think I'm just going into a little bit of a food coma!"

"A  _what_?!" Steve looked alarmed. "Do you need an ambulance? I can't even drive you to the hospital!"

"Steve, relax! It's just an expression!" He closed his eyes and exhaled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"No, it's fine. I should really be reading those documents on today's slang that Miss Lewis wrote up for me." He shook his head.

"Hm. Do you mind if I take a look at those before you dive in?" Natasha liked Darcy, but she couldn't be sure that the girl wouldn't slip in something less-than-factual for a laugh. She'd once taught Thor that Agent Coulson's nickname was "El Diablo"**, which he'd called Coulson (who was partly confused, partly too polite to correct him) for a whole week thinking it meant 'Noble Warrior". Fury had suspended Darcy for two weeks for that. "Yeah, let me just look at those right now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Steve and Natasha watched You Can't Take It With You.
> 
> **The idea of Thor enthusiastically calling Coulson "El Diablo" cracked me up for some reason.
> 
> And pardon my Google Translate Russian. If anyone has a better translation, feel free to message me! It's meant to say "You must move like the wind through the trees".


	4. Steve Flirts With Old Ladies

The Chicago morning dawned sunny. Natasha was wide-awake mere seconds before her alarm rang, and she threw off the covers immediately. She stuck her head out into the living room and spied Steve squeezed onto the comically small couch. He was already awake and reading a magazine. He lifted his head back on the couch so he was looking at her upside-down. "Good morning." He sat up quickly and ran a hand through his hair. "I guess this is the big day?"  
  
"I guess it is," she agreed. "Do you want some breakfast? There's a diner on the corner."  
  
"That sounds great. Um, let me just get dressed," he paused, looking at Natasha, who was lingering in the doorway.  
  
"Oh. I'm sorry! I'll just make some coffee. You go ahead. Take your time," She smiled and shuffled off into the kitchen. She thought she saw him glance down at her bottom in her light pink shorts, but she couldn't be sure.  _He's still human,_  her brain reminded her.  
  
A half hour later they were in the diner, a charming little hole-in-the-wall where the waitresses still wore uniforms. Their elderly waitress had taken a liking to Steve immediately because he said 'please' and 'thank you' and called her 'ma'am'.

"Good for an old lady's heart," the waitress had told him with a wink.

"I'm not sure who you're talking about, Jean," he'd replied grinning. "I don't see any old ladies here."

Natasha wondered if Steve could only be comfortable talking with women who were his ACTUAL age. _It won't do much for his sex life_ , she mused.  
  
"You and your lovely wife have a great day, now!" Jean called as they walked out. They waved, and Natasha slipped her hand into Steve's. "More convincing," she reminded him, and turned back to wave once more.  
  
They split up after breakfast—Natasha trailed the subject and Steve staked out at his apartment. They kept contact by earpiece and a tiny camera hidden in Natasha's—that is,  _Ellie's—_ glasses.  
  
"How come you get to do the fun stuff and I get to sit here in a parked car all day?" Steve complained mildly.  
  
"Because," Natasha said as subtly as she could. "You're still learning. You'll get to do fun stuff tonight, okay? But first you have to  _observe_."  
  
"I can't even see you! I can only see what you see."  
  
"And that says a lot. Pay attention!"  
  
"...why are you following from so far away? What if you lose him?"  
  
"I won't. I don't want him to see me! And stop talking to me. I shouldn't be moving my mouth."  
  
"Then _you_  stop talking to  _me_ ," his defiance was tinged with humor. He was quiet after that.  _He's obedient, at least._

The target wasn't terribly interesting on the surface--a research scientist who conducted studies on poor UChicago students who would do just about anything to their brains for ten bucks an hour. Sleep studies, brain scans, and so on. But on his off time...well, it's always the quiet ones.

After a few hours of watching the good Doctor order and eat a sandwich and browse the Science Fantasy section of Barnes and Noble, Natasha was starting to feel her patience wear. "You'd think he'd be getting up to something good and dastardly by now."

"Maybe it's his day off," Steve suggested. "Besides, it's already five...we need to get back and change before dinner tonight. We know where he'll be—don't exhaust yourself just watching him run pointless errands."

"You're dying to get out of that car, aren't you?"

"Yes.  _PLEASE_  get back here."

"Ha, I'll be right there."


	5. The Flare of a Cigarette

Prior intelligence had confirmed the subject's weekly routine, and Wednesday night dinner was a down-to-the-minute affair. He always ate the same thing at the same casual dining restaurant. And, until recently, he had always been alone. It was time to ID his dinner companion.

Natasha dressed in Ellie's clothes—a girlish blue dress and cardigan that Natasha would  _never_  wear, and a pair of mary janes. She emerged from the bathroom to see Steve was decked out as Alex in a collared shirt, light blue sweater and tan coat. "We match," she smiled. "But you should untuck your shirt. You're a  _dude_ , remember?"

He obeyed, albeit hesitantly. "This is  _not_  appropriate for dinner.  _You_  look great! You get to wear a pretty dress and I get to look like a slob."

"You don't look like a slob! Alex does. Besides, this dress is awful!" She shrugged. "But it's just a costume. Roll with it. Now come on, it's time."

They drove to the restaurant in near silence. As they parked, Natasha noticed Steve's determined expression. "What's the prerogative?"

He looked at her for a long moment. "Get a visual on the target's dinner partner and suspected accomplice. Plant a tracking device on the suspects and acquire 24 hour surveillance. Report back to HQ."

Natasha nodded. "Good. The rest is just dinner."

He swallowed and tried to smile.

"You can do this."

 

Inside, Natasha chose a booth--she could see out of the front windows of the restaurant, Steve could hold down the whole back of the restaurant, including bathrooms. It was a great spot, and no sooner than they sat down, the subject entered, right on time. He sat by the window and pulled out his cell phone, not bothering with the menu.

It was getting darker, and Natasha spotted the flare of a cigarette outside of the window.

_No. No way._  
  
"Um, Alex, sweetie. I just realized I forgot something in the car. Why don't you go ahead and order for me. Anything but shellfish. Thanks love!" Steve looked startled—this wasn't how the evening was supposed to go.  
  
 _You can do this,_ she urged him in her mind.  
  
He smiled. "Sure thing, sweet pea."  
  
 _Good boy._ Natasha climbed out of the booth and strode past the subject, who took no notice of her.  
  
The man with the cigarette lounged against the brick wall of the restaurant. She walked right by him and turned down the alley nearby. She crossed her arms, mouth hardening into a line. Clint sauntered casually around the corner a few moments later and offered her the pack. She took one and snatched the proffered lighter. "Are you fucking kidding me, Clint? What the hell are you doing here? Are you trying to fuck our whole mission right now?"  
  
Clint at least had the grace to look ashamed for a moment before resuming his confidence. "I wanted to watch out for you." The smoke floated thickly between them, obscuring most of his face.  
  
"I have a  _partner_  for that, Clint—"  
  
"Yeah, and he's a novice. He wouldn't have a goddamn clue what to do without his pretty shield, Tasha."  
  
"Don't call me that," she exhaled sharply. " _I'm_ still undercover and following orders. I'm going to have to tell Fury about this, you know..." She took one last drag and handed the end back to him. "And you shouldn't say that about... _Alex_. He's a good partner.  _And he listens._ "  
  
Clint didn't say anything, just stubbed out his own cigarette and put hers between his lips.  
  
"So you'll leave? What did you even  _tell_ Fury? Or are you AWOL? You know what, I don't even want to know. Just get the hell out of here, okay?" He shrugged and scratched the back of his neck. Natasha felt a twinge of  _something_  in her gut, and she didn't like it. "Look," she started, more gently. "I really appreciate that you care enough about me to make sure I'm okay. But I'm a big girl, and I definitely know what I'm doing. You know that better than anyone. Okay?" She paused momentarily, looking for any indication, but he just turned away.  
  
She narrowed her eyes and started out of the alley.  _Moody little jerk,_  she groused. Clint was hard to pin down sometimes. He was a great marksman and a great partner, but he was a by-and-large a loner for a reason.  
  
Steve looked strained when she sat down. "Find what you were looking for?"  
  
Natasha composed her face into an impassive mask. "We have to eat somewhere else tonight, sweetie. Somewhere a little more private—we have something to discuss."  
  
"But—" Steve stopped himself and nodded. "Okay. Maybe we can come back next week?"  
  
"We'll have to," Natasha gritted her teeth. Clint really had to pick that moment to make himself known? He could've kept out of sight easily. Why had he wanted her to notice him? "Trust me, I'm as disappointed as you." She stood to leave.  
  
"Shouldn't we tell someone—?"  
  
But Natasha didn't turn back around. The subject was still alone.  _Damn._ They could've gotten a visual on the accomplice, at least. She glanced around outside, but she couldn't see Clint.  _That doesn't mean he can't see me._  
  
Steve's hand rested gently on her shoulder. She tensed, but he left it there. "Ready, Ellie?"  
  
"Yeah." She linked her arm through his and pulled him along to the car. "Let's just go. We gotta talk."  
  
~  
  
"I don't understand...Clint's one of us! Why would he do something that could compromise a mission?" Steve looked nearly scandalized.  
  
Natasha paced the living room like a caged tiger. "I'm not sure. But that's whatever—I don't think he'll  _interfere_ ; I'm just frustrated that he chose such a terrible moment. He might not have known—I didn't fill him in on the details of the mission, after all."  
  
"You told him about the mission? Natasha, that was classified!"  
  
"And Clint has the same security clearance as us," Natasha paused and looked Steve dead in the eye. "I trust Clint with my life, and I don't see any reason to keep something like this from him. We're still in the very early stages of this mission. We didn't even plan to grab the target for another three months! I'm just frustrated that we'll essentially be waiting around for another week."  
  
Steve frowned. "Okay. If you trust him, I trust him. But I'm definitely not looking forward to waiting around in that car all day—"  
  
A buzz at the door interrupted them. Natasha and Steve immediately tensed, and Natasha crept soundlessly to the peep hole. A middle-aged woman holding a cake was standing there.  
  
She glanced back at Steve, who was braced at the edge of the couch. She motioned him over and mouthed,  _It's okay._  
  
She fixed on a smile and opened the door. "Hello?" she said, in a cheerful voice very unlike her own. She saw Steve double-take out of the corner of her eye. "Can we help you?"  
  
"Hello! I'm Melanie, your neighbor across the hall. I saw you two coming in yesterday and figured you were new! I wanted to welcome you to the building and invite you to a little neighborly meeting we do once a month to talk about the rooftop garden and a few other things!"  
  
Melanie was clearly harmless. Natasha relaxed and traded a relieved smile with Steve. "That sounds just lovely, Melanie. I'm Ellie, and this is my husband Alex." Steve stepped dutifully forward ( _Is there anything he doesn't do dutifully?_  Natasha wondered.) and shook Melanie's hand. "Did you make that gorgeous cake?"  
  
By the time they had gotten rid of Melanie, Natasha's face hurt from smiling. "Cut me some of that cake, will you?"  
  
A few minutes later, Steve emerged with an enormous slice of chocolate cake for her, and an even bigger one for himself.  
  
"So...you're allergic to shellfish?"  
  
Natasha looked up, mouth full of cake. "Wha?"  
  
"At the restaurant, you said no shellfish. I know that was Ellie talking, but the best lies have some truth in them, don't they?" Steve stuffed a massive forkful of cake into his mouth and shrugged.  
  
Natasha was impressed. He was paying attention. "Yeah, I am. An old boyfriend of mine used to tease me about not being able to eat oysters, so—" she stopped short. "Y'know, never mind." She didn't really want to be the one to introduce Steve to the concept of an aphrodisiac at this point. "What about you?"  
  
"None now, but when I was a kid I was allergic to milk and a bunch of other things...I don't really remember now," he lifted the plate happily. "I don't mind! I can eat this cake now!"  
  
Natasha smiled. "How do you stay so positive all the time?"  
  
Steve's smile faltered a little, and he shrugged his big shoulders. "I guess I just try to remember that despite it all, I'm alive. And I have a pretty amazing opportunity to work with pretty amazing people." He smiled at Natasha, who nodded her thanks. "I mean, I get low sometimes...but it definitely helps when I get the chance to smash some bad guy's face in."  
  
Natasha laughed. A few moments of silence passed. "Look, Natasha. I wanted to tell you that it means a lot to me that you're helping me. It's been hard for me to get acclimated, and now I have an important duty to perform...well, I couldn't do it without help. So thanks."  
  
He was disarming in that moment. She reached over and patted Steve's knee, unsure of what to say. He smiled brightly, and she couldn't help but smile back. After a few seconds, Natasha realized her hand was still on his knee. So did Steve.  
  
"So, um...I'll take your plate?" Steve reached out, avoiding her eyes.  
  
"Yes, thank you," Natasha replied smoothly as his shoulder touched hers. He paused, his face near hers, and inhaled gently.  
  
"Natasha?"  
  
"...yes?"  _If he's trying something_...well. Actually, she wasn't sure what she would do.  
  
"Have you been smoking?"  
  
"Oh! Ha-ha," Natasha laughed, feeling silly. "Um, yes, when I saw Clint. He's really the only one I ever really do it with.  _Smoke_ , I mean."  
  
Steve pulled back, looking serious. "I have a lot of doctors now, Natasha, and a lot of people updating me on this century. I know how bad smoking is now. You shouldn't put yourself in danger like that."  
  
Natasha smiled at his earnestness. "Steve, I put my life on the line every day. I don't think one cigarette a month is going to do me any more harm."  
  
Steve frowned, momentarily outargued. "Well...you don't need any more danger in your life then! I don't need any more of my friends doing something that's going to get them killed!" His face had gone from earnest to tense and scared, eyes pleading.  
  
"Whoa, Steve. Hold on," Natasha rubbed his back soothingly. "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to resurrect any unpleasant memories for you. I know how bad that can be." She did know, and she would never knowingly do it to anyone else--especially someone like Steve, who never asked for any of this. "Look, I promise, okay? No more smoking. Look at you, watching my back like a pro already, hm?" She nudged him and smiled.  
  
Steve smiled and relaxed, looking sheepish. "I'm sorry, Natasha. I shouldn't be telling you what to do. You've been a really great teacher."  
  
"Aw, thanks, Steve," She nudged him again with her shoulder and stood. "Wanna watch a movie? We've got a long week ahead of us. Heard of _Singin' In the Rain_ yet?"


	6. Clint is a Marksman

Clint watched from the rooftop opposite with a sniper's scope.  
  
Clint wasn't jealous, per se. He was protective of Natasha—after all, he'd been the one to get her out of The Business in the first place. Well, that was an overstatement; she was simply giving her Business to a different group.

_Killing only Bad Guys now,_  Clint thought. Clint  _hoped_ , anyway. He had to remind himself from time to time that S.H.I.E.L.D. truly are The Good Guys. Natasha had been properly convinced since she joined--she had an almost unfailing respect for authority. Especially an authority that was willing to forgive her for her many sins.  _It might be buried deep within her, but that Eastern Orthodoxy is still there,_  Clint mused.  
  
They were watching _Singin' in the Rain_. Clint had watched that with Natasha, too, and the memory didn't make him feel any less territorial. They were smiling and laughing and Natasha looked comfortable in a way Clint had only seen around himself. He supposed he should be pleased that Natasha was making friends where there had only been co-workers before.  
  
Through the window, Rogers was watching Natasha watch the movie. She was singing along to 'Good Morning' and doing a silly, jiggling dance in her seat. Rogers was laughing, and when Tasha turned and noticed, she slapped him on the shoulder. Not hard, Clint noticed. It was a playful slap, and Clint felt his neck get hot.  
  
He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up into the night. He didn't really want to watch anymore. He walked around the rooftop, peering across the landscape of jagged buildings jutting against the sky. Clint liked Chicago--he'd visited a few times in his career, and had always relished any chance he got to come back (especially when the visit included genuine Chicago pizza).  
  
He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt over the side of the building. It landed squarely in the trash can several dozen feet below. Aim was second nature for Clint: level the arrow (or the cigarette end, in this case), release, and hit. Methodical, mathematical, physical. A good marksman at a disadvantage can over-correct to make any shot, and Clint was a damn good marksman.  
  
He turned back to the window raised the scope again. Natasha laying on her side, head cushioned on Steve's hip. She was gesturing with a finger at the screen; Clint saw Cyd Charisse gliding around sultrily. This was Natasha's favorite part, he knew. She loved to dance, and she loved to watch good dancing. Clint glanced at Steve, who had his arm up on the back of the couch and was listening intently to whatever Natasha was pointing out.  
  
Clint looked again at Natasha's drowsy, smiling face for a long moment, then pocketed the scope and headed for the fire escape.  
  
Maybe Chicago wasn't so great after all.


	7. The Visual

When Wednesday came again, Natasha had to force herself not to call HQ to report Clint—or check up on him. Not that they would be able to track him if he hadn’t gone back to Fury—he had learned how to throw the signal ages ago. Naturally, so had Natasha, but she had faith where Clint didn’t. If your boss knew where you were, they could keep you safe. They could come get you if you were in trouble. Clint did not place his trust in his employers so completely.

She wondered if he’d stayed in the city—he liked Chicago, she remembered that. He could easily find a place to crash for the time being. It had been a whole week since she’d seen him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see her.

Steve, on the other hand, had been a steady, constant presence. She liked him—he was friendly, considerate, respectful to a fault, and painfully good-natured. Once she’d seen him shoo a spider out the window—it was as if it didn’t even occur to him to smash it. Perhaps Natasha had learned to solve too many problems with violence…

“Natasha? Natasha, are you okay?”

“What? Oh,” Natasha roused herself from her daze. “Totally fine. You ready?” Steve had gotten marginally more comfortable in his modern clothing, though he still hated maintaining stubble and bedhead. _It isn’t proper_ , he insisted. _It’s not respectful_. She smiled warmly at his mussed hair, and he blushed deeply.

“Is it that bad? I’m going to comb it—“

“No, no, Steve,” Natasha laughed, catching his hand. “It looks fine. You blend in perfectly. Stop worrying about it.” She checked her watch. “We should get going.” She released Steve’s hand sheepishly and slid on Ellie’s cardigan.

Steve took her hand again after she locked the apartment behind them. “More convincing,” he smiled, and nodded down the hall at Melanie, who was leading her tiny dog back into her place. “Evening, Melanie!”

“Oh, hello, Alex!” Melanie’s soft, lined face stretched into an excited smile. Natasha rolled her eyes inwardly—Steve was the natural favorite when it came to older women. “Don’t you two look like a picture! Where are you off to?”

“Dinner,” Natasha cut in, with what she hoped was a winning smile. “We’re trying that restaurant by the library.”

Melanie leaned down to pick up the squirming white puppy and squinted up at the ceiling in thought. “Not sure if I’ve been to that one. You’ll have to tell me how it is! Maybe you both can swing by for dessert and coffee sometime this week and we can catch up!”

“That would be lovely, Melanie,” Steve seemed genuinely interested, which annoyed Natasha slightly. Obviously it was good to be friendly, but it was way more important to focus on the mission. Plus, Melanie was painfully boring, and slightly embarrassing, as any aging hippie was. But Natasha fixed on a smile, and nodded a good-natured farewell.

“Was that wrong?” Steve wondered as they walked to the car. “Should I have said no?”

“Not necessarily,” Natasha allowed. “But professional prerogative aside, she is not much fun to be around.”

“Free cake, though,” Steve reasoned.

Natasha considered this and nodded. “Good point.”

~

The restaurant was busier tonight—this time they secured a two-top right by the window, next to the table where the Doctor typically sat. There was a ‘reserved’ card on it; that was a good sign.

They were nursing bowls of corn chowder when the bell on the door jingled. Steve’s shoulders tensed. _He’ll learn,_ she thought. Natasha swallowed a spoonful and sat back in her chair.

It was definitely him: rumpled, grey-haired, and wearing thick, wire-rimmed glasses. He settled into his usual chair, back-to-back with Steve. _Perfect,_ Natasha thought, loading her spoon. _Now let’s get that visual._

The door swing open again. _Jingle, jingle._ Natasha’s mouth would’ve dropped open if it hadn’t been full of hot soup.

Clint sauntered in wearing a suit and, without a second glance at Natasha, he grinned broadly at the target, reaching out his hand for a shake. “Doctor! I’ve heard so much about you. It’s _so_ good to finally meet you…”


	8. Was, Wasn't

They’d had to sneak Clint in through the window—they didn’t want to risk Melanie seeing him.

“Why are you mad? I’m _helping_ you. I put a tracking device on his car last week, I set up a whole undercover persona to get close to him. He trusts me. I made your job easier!” Clint was lounging easily in the armchair, his feet up on the coffee table in Alex and Ellie’s apartment. He had ditched his suit jacket and tie.

“Clint, you’re interfering!” Natasha was admittedly impressed—and slightly embarrassed—that Clint had attained a much better angle so quickly, but this wasn’t the time to congratulate him for working outside of the established order. Especially if he stepped on her toes in the process.

“Not if I was assigned here!”

That gave Natasha pause. “Assigned?” Had Fury decided that she wasn’t up to the challenge of teaching Steve and completing a mission at the same time?

“Well,” Clint rolled one muscular shoulder. “I had myself placed here. I pitched the gameplan myself.”

“So you just decided to cut in and complete the mission for me? What the—“

“Excuse me,” Steve interrupted, looking serious. “This was my mission too, and I don’t really appreciate being left out like I’m a kid listening to Mom and Dad fight it out, okay?”

Natasha inhaled, trying to control her temper. Steve was right, of course—this had been a learning opportunity that Clint had cheated Steve out of. “Exactly! Steve was training! Were you having some kind of macho crisis, Clint? Is that what this is about?”

For an instant, something like real hurt flitted across Clint’s face, but it was promptly replaced by a stony expression. “I’m so sorry that my great idea and execution got in the way of your little lesson. My sincerest apologies.” He offered Steve a mocking bow and turned on his heel, stalking away into the kitchen.

Steve turned to Natasha; his open, handsome face was puzzled. “What’s his problem?” he murmured, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Did I do something?”

“You didn’t kiss his ass,” Natasha rolled her eyes. “I just don’t understand why he couldn’t trust me to handle this on my own. Sure, he’s been protective of me in the past, but he’s never interfered this blatantly.” She watched the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed tightly. “He doesn’t even _like_ espionage.”

“No,” Steve agreed, walking toward the kitchen. “But I think I know what he _does_ like.” The kitchen window was open, the curtains flapping in the evening breeze. Clint was nowhere to be seen. “Or who.”

Natasha frowned. “What? I—I don’t—it’s not—“ It wasn’t.

Was it?


	9. Partners

Days passed with no sign of Clint. If she didn’t know better, Natasha would be inclined to believe he had headed back to base. But she hadn’t gotten to the top of her (very particular) field for nothing. He had to be lurking. Plus, he had an undercover mission going on—whatever his personal feelings were, he wasn’t stupid enough to cut that very important tie.

_Personal feelings,_ Natasha thought. She reflected that she and Clint were close, sure, and he was handsome and capable and fun to be around. He had been her first real friend. _Just a friend?_ A little voice inside her wondered. She’d thought so, but now Steve’s implication was making her stomach twist. Was it nerves? Excitement? Did she want to be wanted?

She had expected the chemistry with Steve—after all, it was just the two of them in close quarters for several days. They only had each other; a closeness was bound to be forged.

Her mind flashed briefly, but intensely, to Budapest. It had been a very similar circumstance, she recalled. The two of them isolated from the rest of the detail, relying only on each other for months. On second thought, she supposed it wasn’t all that similar. She and Steve weren’t in any real danger—no one was trying to shoot her in the street as they had tried in Hungary. Clint had her back then.

She watched Steve wash the dishes. He didn’t like to use the dishwasher. She suspected the small, homey tasks occupied and calmed his mind. She felt the same way about needlepoint, a fact she had only revealed to Clint upon pain of death. He had laughed for days.

Steve glanced over his shoulder and caught her eye. “I could practically feel that stare. Everything okay?” He tossed a rag over one muscular shoulder and leaned a hip on the counter. She didn’t answer right away, just stared into his handsome face. He looked good with scruff. God, he and Clint couldn’t be more different, apart from the fact that they were both introverts. She wondered what Steve thought about Clint’s feelings—all he’d voiced were his suspicions.

“Do you think—“ Natasha began, before she’d thought it through. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“Is this about Clint?” Steve took the seat opposite Natasha at the small kitchen table. “About what I said?”

“…Sort of,” Natasha allowed, folding her hands in front of her. “Do you think—well, _what_ do you think?” For an absurd moment, Natasha hoped Steve was jealous, but she beat that stupid impulse down.

Steve wrinkled his brow and sat back, staring searchingly into the corner where the ceiling met the wall. “I don’t really know. I mean, it’s not any wonder he’d be sweet on you. You’re—you know.” He cleared his throat awkwardly.

Natasha glanced quickly down at her folded hands, her cheeks warm.

“What I don’t understand is how he let his feelings control how he handled his work. I mean, I understand the impulse to drop everything for the person you lo—you care about,” he paused here, his jaw set. “ _But._ But there’s a world out there that’s way bigger than you. You have to do your duty to serve a bigger cause,” He met Natasha’s eyes and smiled wanly. “No matter how worthy the woman is.”

Natasha stared back. Her stomach hadn’t stopped twisting, but she wasn’t sure what the cause was anymore. “Thank you, Steve.”

His smile widened, and he reached out to cover her folded hands with one of his. “Any time, partner.”


	10. The Marrying Kind

When Steve awoke the next day, he had made a decision.

Clint had not reappeared to apologize. It didn’t take a super-soldier to divine that he was probably exploiting the alliance he had formed with the good Doctor—perhaps Clint felt that acing the mission would make up for his less-than-gentlemanly behavior when it came to Natasha.

Steve hadn’t intended to wedge himself into a partnership like Clint and Natasha’s. He had sensed the closeness there, and kept an appropriate distance. But how was he supposed to keep his distance when she was sleeping in the next room? Was Clint blaming him for being assigned this mission?

Thus, the decision was made: he would no longer let Clint’s hurt feelings or over-the-top shenanigans get in the way of his training, his duty, or his feelings for N—

Wait a moment. He didn’t mean _feelings_ , feelings. Just, you know, normal feelings—the kind that any respectable officer would have for his talented, capable, beautiful, _bendy_ —

_That’s enough of that, soldier!_ He had never been the kind of soldier that passed around penny dreadfuls or collected pinups for the walls of his tent (truth be told, no one ever got friendly enough with Cap to offer, but that was beside the point). He had always been consumed with his responsibilities as Captain America and, when he had the time, with his interest in Peggy.

He felt oddly guilty about that, as if he was letting Peggy down somehow by finding another woman attractive. He was seventy years late as it is; he hardly imagined Penny—who was easily ninety by now—would take it as a slight that a girl his own age had caught his eye.

But Natasha wasn’t really his age, was she? And he wasn’t hers.

Steve sighed and rolled off the too-small couch, stretching his back. Like any strapping, young-looking man would, Steve had pondered about what his life would be like in this time. Life apart from missions and spying and alien invaders, that is. Maybe he’d have a wife—even children. He knew that his procedure hadn’t negatively affected his fertility. (If anything, he was sure it had been enhanced.)

He walked to the bathroom and met the young face in the mirror. He suspected Natasha wasn’t really the marrying kind, but he couldn’t help but imagine how closely life would parallel their stay here in Chicago. They’d be sharing one room, of course—Steve blushed mildly and almost missed his toothbrush attempting to apply toothpaste. He would get up first and make eggs. She would rise soon after and use the bathroom first, then brew the coffee. They’d go to headquarters and have lunch in the commissary together. After work they’d get dinner from their favorite place down the street, and watch old movies before bed.

Steve spat in the sink and shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself, but it was nice to think about.

A knock on the door jolted him out of his reverie. Natasha’s voice was muffled by the door: “Hey, are you almost done in there? I have a surprise for you!”

That certainly didn’t make it any easier. “Yeah, I’ll be right out.” _Honey,_ he added quietly, in his thoughts.


	11. Said and Unsaid

After using the bathroom and brushing her teeth, Natasha returned to find a text notification on her duty phone:

_Come out to the roof._

Her stomach swooped, but she forced herself to roll her eyes. This was typical Barton behavior: brooding, mysterious, somewhat romantic, and just a touch domineering.

“I believe you made a mention of a surprise?”

Natasha started. Steve was standing awkwardly in the doorway, looking fixedly at Natasha’s left ear.

“Oh—right.” Natasha dropped her phone on the bed and slid past Steve. “I know you’re a big fan of the ones at the diner, but I thought it might be nice if we made them here for a change.” She opened the refrigerator door with a flourish and removed a brimming bowl of batter. “Pancakes!”

Steve’s stiff expression relaxed into a broad grin. “Wow. That’s real nice of you, Natasha. Thank you.” He reached out to touch her arm, but she pulled him into a hug instead. After a long moment, they pulled away and Steve cleared his throat. “I guess we’d better get started.”

Clint’s text flashed through her mind. “Oh, yes. But, um. I need to run out for a minute. To the roof.”

“The…roof?”

“Yeah…Clint finally got in touch with me.” She opened the wide kitchen window and stepped out into the fire escape.

“He’s _here?_ Now?” Something like anger coiled briefly in Steve’s eyes. “Tell him to use the front door next time.”

Natasha smiled. “I’ll do my best. Five minutes.”

It was overcast, but bright. The sky was white as milk.

“Took you long enough. Didn’t they teach you to react a bit faster back in the old country?” Clint was leaning casually against the brick, picking his fingernails.

Natasha said nothing—she was sure he had more to say.

“Pancakes, huh?”

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop,” Natasha said, with more than a touch of irony. They were spies, after all.

Clint smiled, his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shrugged. “Very nice set-up you have here. _Domestic._ ”

Natasha pursed her lips and crossed her arms. She could let him run himself down; let him talk himself out about whatever ego problem he was having.

“I never pegged you for the domestic type, Tash. You’re more of a…career woman.” He scratched his head thoughtfully. He studied her for a moment, head tilted. “Tasha. Look at us. Have we ever acted this way with each other?”

He was right—she had never felt this strange distance. For years now, she had always been able share any part of herself with him.

“I apologize,” he said suddenly, walking towards her, careful to stop at a respectful distance. “I’ve been an idiot.”

She remained silent, but gave a tiny nod of agreement. She felt her shoulders relax slightly.

“I’ve been a _jealous_ idiot.” He gave her a slightly pleading look, like a child asking forgiveness for stealing a cookie he had already been denied. “It was…harder than I expected, seeing you with another partner. It’s stupid, I know. You’re a person. Not a toy to be fought over.”

He turned away from her and shielded his eyes from the glare of the bright sky, then turned back. He started a sentence many times over, but couldn’t seem to finish it. He approached her, untangled her crossed arms, and took both of her hands in his. “I’ve just never been close to someone the way I’ve been close to you. And vice-versa, I think,” he added softly, meeting her eyes.

Again, he was right. It was true. There was no comparison. She had lived with Steve for a few short weeks. She and Clint had been _partners_ far longer. She opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t seem to find her voice. She coughed awkwardly, but didn’t break the gaze.

He just smiled again, and squeezed her hands. It was amazing, the things they didn’t have to say. Or the things they avoided saying—Natasha wasn’t sure which it was yet. Clint’s face hovered closer to hers—

“Is everything all right?”

Darling Steve, with the jaw of stone and the edge of steel in his voice. He’d probably thought he was protecting her. Maybe he was.


	12. Forgive or Forget

Why had he done that?

Both the spying _and_ the interrupting.

The spying was coming more easily now—it had not been hard to creep up the fire escape after Natasha and wait just out of sight, although he doubted they’d have noticed him had he been standing there in full Captain America regalia.

They’d been staring deeply into one another’s eyes (he knew it sounded clichéd and cheesy, but it was true). He was still holding her hands gently in his, standing close. Now, both of their gazes were trained on him. Clint looked smugly amused; Natasha looked guilty.

That surprised him a little. If anything, Steve was the one who should feel like the intruder, the one who had made a misstep.

“Impeccable timing as usual, Captain,” Clint smiled thinly, without turning from Natasha. He drew his hands back from hers and slid them into his pockets, but he did not widen the distance between them. “I think we’ll have to resume this conversation another time.”

Natasha nodded, trapped between the two stares. She rallied as quickly as she could. “You've got my number.”

“You bet I do,” Clint grinned. “Go on—I’m sure the pancakes are getting cold without you.”

She flushed slightly, but slipped by him with as much dignity as she could muster (which was quite a lot). She passed Steve without a word and disappeared down the ladder.

After a few awkward moments of silence, Steve turned to descend as well.

“Wait, wait,” Clint smiled, approaching the ladder. “This is pretty dumb, huh?”

“Which part?”

“The part where you and I are acting weird over Natasha.”

“Oh. That part.” Steve was not used to this kind of conversation. Bucky was the one who fought over girls, and those “discussions” usually ended with a punch in the jaw. Thankfully, this talk didn’t seem to be going in that direction.

“We both respect her, and I like to think we respect each other.”

Steve nodded, staring resolutely at Clint’s hairline.

“Great. I think we can get on with this job like civilized gentlemen, can’t we?”

_I’ve_ been _getting on with the job._ And Steve felt a little guilty for thinking it, but he expected he knew what it meant to be a civilized gentleman more than Clint did.

“I guess I’ll be off,” Clint smirked, brushing past Steve to start his descent down the side of the building.

“Feel free to use the door next time,” Steve added, turning. He had meant for it to be a joke to break the tension, but it came out stiffly.

Clint laughed, but said nothing else. When Steve finally looked over the edge, Clint was nowhere to be seen.

Inside, the pancakes were already cooking. He perched in the window, watching her flip them and expose the golden surface.

“Butter or syrup?” she asked, not looking at him.

“Both.”

Her mouth twitched with amusement and, after a moment, she glanced up at him. He smiled wanly back and started gathering plates and forks. All was forgiven.


	13. The Good Guys

Clint couldn’t decide if he was amused or threatened by Rogers’ appearance on the roof. He was annoyed, certainly. He had been very close to—well, a moment that had been building between him and Natasha for a long time.

He scanned the skyline from his spot on the rooftop next to Natasha’s apartment building. He supposed he was showing that he was threatened by continuing to look after her from a distance, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Or him, for that matter.

He’d had enough discipline to stay away for the rest of the day—he hardly wanted to sit around watching Tasha and Captain Cleft-chin eat pancakes and play footsie.

Perhaps foolishly, Clint considered the comparison: Rogers was buff, certainly, and handsome—in a pretty, boy-scout kind of way. Was that the kind of thing Natasha liked? He recalled an offhand exchange between Tasha and Tony, who was trying to get buddy-buddy with her again. (Tony should’ve known better than to try that—Natasha respected Tony, of course, but she would not forget her time as his assistant quickly.)

“Come on, red,” Tony teased. “We all know the ladies love a bad boy.”

“And if the lady has had enough of the bad boys?” she replied, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Impossible.” Tony waved a hand dismissively. He flashed a grin at Pepper, who rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

Natasha had just shrugged. Clint hadn't thought much of it at the time—after all, he was a Good Guy, too, right? But he couldn’t help but allow a tendril of doubt pierce his thoughts: _Not compared to him._

Rogers was disgustingly good. Help-old-ladies-across-the-street good. Stand-up-when-ladies-leave-the-table good. It was very annoying, and not a little worrisome. Clint had always thought he and Natasha were a natural pair. No supernatural powers, supernatural genius or supernatural wealth. Just pure skill, honed for years against the grain of combat, worked to a sharp point that speared them both.

And Budapest.

Clint thought far too often of Budapest. Of hot asphalt making the air ripple, and the dark motel room where he and Natasha had hidden out for weeks before the standoff. Close quarters, her in the tight black tank top that grew blacker with summer sweat. They had hardly known each other then, dancing awkwardly around the place, trying not to touch, facing opposite walls when they went to sleep in the twin beds.

But then he turned over, and was surprised to find her staring back at him. He supposed they’d both gone too long without proper human contact. Everything fell into place in a blur of red hair and bullets: by the end of it, all he knew was that he had a best friend.

_You still do,_ the charitable side of himself reminded him. _She still loves you and trusts you—well, at least she did before you showed up here without warning and insinuated yourself into her mission._

He shook his head and turned to her window. They were going over files together on the sofa. Natasha was laser-focused, her eyes scanning the folder in front of her. She was talking, and Rogers was listening intently, watching—no, _studying_ her face. Clint saw Natasha’s mouth stop moving and, after a long pause, she turned to meet Cap’s eyes. Rogers’ cheeks went pink.

”I can’t believe it,” Clint said aloud. “He goddamn _blushed_.”

Natasha had turned back to the folder, but she was smiling a tiny smile. A secret smile. Rogers had not looked away, even though his blush was deepening and spreading down his thick neck.

Clint automatically reached for his cigarettes. He felt…strangely at ease, which unnerved him. Clint would prefer to be in there with her, but if she had to fall for someone else…well, he didn’t mind if it was for a good guy.


	14. The Difference Between Desire and Love

Natasha awoke in her bed, fully-dressed under the covers.

_He tucked me in._

She remembered dozing off on the couch, arm curled under her head and leaning on the armrest; Steve had been watching _Gone with the Wind_ , eyes wide and rapt. She supposed he carried her to her room.

Now that she thought about it, she had a vague, fuzzy memory of being lifted easily in strong arms and maneuvered carefully through her bedroom doorway. She remembered her cheek resting against a warm chest. _Oh dear._

It wasn’t that the memory wasn’t comfortable—it was—but her feelings had been complicated enough since Clint had popped up to interfere in the mission, apparently taking a short pit stop to romance her along the way. And Steve, always so thoughtful, was becoming oddly protective.

Natasha had taken on many missions that required not only her talents with firearms and martial arts, but her hourglass figure and an ability to walk—and fuck, and fight—in six-inch heels. Natasha was used to being desired; she didn’t know much about being loved.

_Oh, get over yourself, they aren’t in love with you._

Maybe they didn’t love her, but they definitely knew her better than any of the spies or drug lords or terrorists she’d had to seduce in the past. It was different when it was a friend. Someone who knew the real you (even if they could never know your real name).

_He didn’t undress you._

Even if he had, she was certain he’d have had his eyes closed resolutely the whole time, but it was…affirming to know that he hadn’t. Like he had proved something.

Clint probably would have removed her jeans at least, but he’d seen her that way before. They had cleaned their lacerations together, and stitched up each other’s skin. They had seen each other’s insides; there wasn’t much room for modesty between them.

Steve _had_ removed her earrings though, and set them in the little bowl on her nightstand. He’d taken off her fake wedding ring, too. Thoughtful.

She slipped out from under the covers and pulled on a new tee shirt, not bothering to change the jeans. Running a hand through her hair, she stuck her head out into the living room. Steve was awake, reading a Dan Brown book. He looked up.

“Good morning. How’d you sleep?”

“Very well,” Natasha smiled, taking the seat beside him. “Thank you for taking me to bed. I wouldn’t have wanted to take up your sleeping spot—couch space is at a premium for you as it is.”

His mouth twitched and he returned his eyes to the book. “I thought you’d be more comfortable there.”

He was looking at the page, but his eyes weren’t moving. Natasha looked between them and smirked affectionately. “How’s the book?”

“Fine. A little unrealistic, though.”

“A little?” She laughed. “The movie wasn’t bad. I can download it, if you’d rather get all the info in a little under two hours.”

“Maybe. I like reading, though.” He hesitated. “It’s the same, mostly. Even though a lot has changed.” He shrugged and closed the book.

Natasha nodded, feeling slightly stupid for defaulting to something as modern and brainless as suggesting to watch the movie instead. “No, you’re right. Let’s read tonight instead of watching a movie. We can still have popcorn, though.”

“Good idea!” Steve grinned, looking genuinely pleased. “But this time I’ll show you how it’s really done. None of this microwave stuff. Real stovetop popcorn.”

She gasped, mock-affronted, and put a splayed hand to her chest. “Have you been hiding your culinary skills from me, Captain Rogers? If you can cook, why have you just been letting me order takeout for all these weeks?”

“How often can you say Commander Fury bought you dinner?” Nick Fury was notorious for insisting on his own check any time the Avengers got together for a meal. Natasha suspected that it wasn’t a lack of generosity, but the fact that Tony and Thor tended to spent way too much money on taquitos and beer (respectively) for Fury to feel entirely comfortable sending the receipt back to SHIELD’s expenses department.

“Point taken. I’m actually surprised Tony hasn’t showed up to take advantage yet.”

“It’s only a matter of time. Speaking of, are you hungry?”

They went to the diner; it had become a cozy routine. So had slipping her hand into his as they walked there. _Convincing_ , she told herself. Natasha ate her eggs, watched Steve flirt with the waitress, and tried not to let the word _boyfriend_ cross her mind.


	15. The Kernel-to-Butter Ratio

Steve had hesitated, albeit briefly, when he’d moved to take her ring off.

It felt a bit too intimate, even if the ring was a prop.

Even after his father died, his mother wore her ring; then she’d been buried in it. Steve vaguely remembered that she had wanted it to go to his future wife, but Mom had died before he’d even left school; it didn’t seem right to take it from her, so it went into the earth.

Pepper had told him that wearing jewelry to bed wasn’t good for the settings. (She had been trying to tell Darcy, but Darcy just made a snarky-but-good-natured comment about not being able to afford Stark-quality jewelry and put her earphones back in.) Steve had filed this information away involuntarily, envisioning the diamond ring he would have bought if his plane hadn’t gone into the sea. _The diamond ring you might someday still buy_ , he thought. Doubt twisted his gut.

He turned on the stove and set the pan on top of the flame. He let it warm up and added the oil, swirling it lazily. Then the kernels, perforating the shimmering surface, then overtaking it. He replaced the lid and waited for the telltale tapping. It felt good to be making popcorn in a kitchen instead of shivering in a tent over a camp stove. He removed a smaller pan from the hook over the stove and set it over another burner; he unwrapped a stick of butter and watched it liquefy.

“You look right at home.”

Natasha leaned casually against the kitchen doorframe, her arms crossed. Her hands were hidden, swathed in a large gray sweatshirt; her black flared leggings puddled around bare feet. With her face scrubbed clean and her dyed-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, she almost looked like one of the young college students Steve had seen walking around Washington Square Park.

_I am at home_ , he thought.

“It feels good to cook,” he said instead. “I mean, I cook a little bit at home, but it’s not the same when you’re cooking for one. You never want to do anything fancy. Not that popcorn is fancy.”

“ _Homemade_ popcorn is fancy.”

He felt her walk up behind him; felt the ghost of her hand on his back but it never quite touched. She hovered just behind him to his right, his elbow tucked in the L of her upper arm and her breasts. Inside the pan, the kernels began to explode, tapping out a morse code message against the stainless steel.

“I picked out a book,” Natasha continued, turning to hoist herself up onto the countertop. “ _The Brothers Karamazov_ was in the bookshelf. I think Tony probably had it slipped in as a joke.” She swung her legs idly, heels tapping the cabinet below and echoing the pops coming from the pan. “But it’s worth a reread.”

Steve nodded and glanced sideways; Natasha was studying his profile. He looked away quickly and forced the edges of his mouth down. He swirled the butter, which was nearly all melted. The pops in the pan were loud and insistent; the lid was starting to clatter. He swiftly retrieved a bowl from another cabinet and lifted the lid, sweeping the overflow of white, fluffy popcorn into the bowl before it could hit the floor.

“Nice catch.” Natasha snatched a kernel.

“Not yet!” Steve scolded. “Wait until I put the butter on!” He salted the kernels and drizzled the butter carefully; it took a practiced hand to coat all of the pieces.

“Looks like a very delicate process,” Natasha observed, smirking.

“The kernel-to-butter ratio is _essential_.”

~

Before long they were planted on the couch with the bowl set between them, their faces hidden behind their respective books. They crunched comfortably, occasionally exchanging smiles from either end of the sofa.

“How’s the book?”

“It’s a Russian novel. Lots of broken hearts and fifty nicknames per person.”

“Fair enough.”

“You?”

“About what you told me: totally unrealistic. But it’s fun.”

They shared another warm smile; the kind that made him feel like this was the kind of thing he could do, and do often. He reached for the popcorn, eyes still locked on hers, and felt a brush of fingers against his in the bowl. They both jerked back, stricken.

Steve regained his composure relaxed his shoulders and exhaled. “Heh.”

Natasha looked away, smiling, then let her eyes flick back to his face. It was warm. It was comfortable, even domestic. It was—

Natasha’s phone jingled on the arm of the couch.

—it was a mission.

Steve observed Natasha discreetly from over the top of his book. She ran her eyes over the screen, lips pressed firmly together; then they went slack with surprise. “Oh.”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s Clint.” That was what Steve had been afraid of. “He’s heading back to Headquarters.”

“Really?” Steve tried to keep the hope out of his voice. “But what about his cover? The doctor—“

“Apparently Clint took care of it. We’ll be getting further instructions in the morning. Probably follow-up stuff.” Natasha rose stiffly, clutching the large book in one hand. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

Steve glanced at the clock. It was 8:42. “Okay.”

Clearly Natasha was frustrated and disappointed. If Steve knew anything about her, it was that she prided herself on getting things done efficiently and independently. Clint beating her to the punch probably stung, and since Clint knew Natasha better than he, Steve was sure he intended it to.

Steve couldn’t suppress a surge of annoyance at the absent Clint. Even now, it was as though he’d sauntered in and sat himself between them on the couch, neatly resurrecting the distance their hands had crossed. Perhaps foolishly, Steve imagined holding her hand for real. Not as Alex, but as himself. He recalled the way her hand would slide into his—always initiating. He considered this and stared at Natasha’s closed door.

He made a decision; it was a good one.


	16. Meanwhile, at SHIELD

Clint stared up at the glass building, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the glare; the gleam pierced through his sunglasses. SHIELD Headquarters.

He was not looking forward to the tongue-lashing he was surely going to get from Fury. Certainly, Clint had gotten results, but only because he had gone rogue and interfered in Natasha’s mission. (Okay, so he hadn’t been completely honest with her about being “assigned” to intervene.)

Hill had been ringing his cell almost off the hook since Fury was made aware of Clint’s actions, but she had been kind about it, if a little urgent. He supposed his results might temper Fury’s, well, temper. But only a little.

He exhaled deeply and entered the building without removing his sunglasses, the glass doors sliding smoothly aside to admit him. He took the elevator to Fury’s floor and stepped off. The cubicles were bustling, but Clint didn’t miss the looks and whispers that bubbled up when the desk-jockeys saw him emerge.

He walked towards Fury’s office, glad that his sunglasses made him look cooler and more in control than he felt. He didn’t usually let his emotions dictate his actions, but Natasha was different; he wondered if Fury would understand that.

“Legolas! ‘Bout time you showed up.”

Clint groaned. Tony Stark was approaching with a large, steaming cup of coffee; Dr. Banner was close behind, dipping a tea bag into a mug of water.

“Stark. Shouldn’t you be off…working on some vanity project?”

“I am!” Tony grinned, gesturing to Dr. Banner. “Bruce here is helping me with a few fancy-pants nuclear experiments to enhance my next suit.”

Bruce smiled weakly and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Guilty.”

Tony peered into Clint’s face; his gaze was piercing despite Clint’s sunglasses. “Rough time in Chicago, huh?”

“Tony,” Bruce said warningly.

Clint blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, you know, the Eagle Scout swooping in on your girl. Ha!” Tony turned to Bruce. “Get it? He’s Hawkeye and Rogers is the Eagle Scout. I crack me up.”

Bruce winced and rubbed his forehead. “Ignore him.”

“I have to say, I was surprised. My money was on you. Literally. We took bets.”

“And there it is,” Bruce muttered under his breath, sneaking a glance at the cubicles behind him. People were starting to stare.

Clint felt like punching something. Preferably Tony’s smug, goateed face. “I don’t understand. You guys were _watching_ us?”

“Yeah! Duh. It’s a mission; you must’ve known that whole building was wired with cameras. Including the roof.” Tony winked. “Best reality show since The Bachelor. Pepper was double-or-nothing that Natasha would—“

“Show me.”

“Sorry?”

“Show me where you’ve been watching.”

He knew, of course. Clint was familiar with the screen room. Its name was pretty literal; the wall was one big screen and could accommodate hundreds of images sized according to your preference.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea—“ Bruce began.

“Oh, cut it with the innocent act, Bruce. You know you had ten bucks on Rogers.” Tony turned to Clint. “He should’ve bet more, I guess.”

Clint gritted his teeth.

Bruce blushed and said nothing more. Tony, smirking, led the way.

The screen room was dark; the blue glow of the images providing most of the light in the smallish, boardroom-style space. There was a long table with ten chairs situated around it; all the chairs were filled. In fact, the whole room was packed snugly with operatives, engineers, and administrators; Clint recognized the Head of Arms Training, who was chewing intently on a granola bar, her eyes fixed on the screen.

The screen itself only had about twenty images—one was larger than the rest: Steve and Natasha’s kitchen.

The cameras were clearly motion-detecting; every time one of them exited a room another screen would enlarge for prime surveillance.

They were making sandwiches. Clint calculated that it was about lunchtime in Chicago. Natasha was wearing a very un-Natasha-like pink dress; it was fluttering around her knees, carried by the breeze coming from the open window. Captain Cleft-chin was telling her a joke and she was laughing.

The door to the screen room closed loudly behind Clint, which made the audience jump and turn. When they saw his face, they looked away fast. A few of them started gathering their snacks and murmuring excuses about their ‘break’. Tony seemed rather amused by the whole thing.

But Clint only half-noticed all of that; the majority of his attention was focused on the two figures framed in the camera’s lens.

Natasha and the Captain packed the sandwiches into a basket, but instead of exiting the apartment through the front door, they climbed out of the kitchen window and onto the fire escape.

_A picnic on the roof,_ Clint thought, almost impressed. _He’s good._


	17. Rooftops and Real Girls

“I’m not _mad_ ,” Natasha insisted, spreading mayonnaise on her toast. “I’m just…frustrated. I don’t like having my legs cut out from under me on a mission, even if it led to the mission’s success.” She said the last part grudgingly—it smarted that Clint had tied up the mission with a tidy bow. All that was left was what Natasha called an “exit interview”; she and Steve would raid the Good Doctor’s home for any lingering artifacts or evidence of even more misdeeds, “tag and tow” anything particularly special, and photograph the rest for records.

She and Steve were preparing lunch after the latest update to the Intel base at S.H.I.E.L.D.; it had not been a fun call. Natasha could feel the disappointment radiating off of Fury in waves, even through the phone. “I don’t like looking stupid,” she added, almost to herself.

“I don’t blame you,” Steve shrugged. “I’m not too pleased with Agent Barton myself at the moment.”

“Exactly! He interfered with your education! Your first real espionage mission. If he didn’t at least get some serious desk-duty, I’m going to file a complaint. A little paperwork would be the least of his worries.” She sliced through her sandwich with a chop that probably didn’t warrant the force she had used; tomato splattered on the backsplash.

Steve blinked at her, then glanced toward the window, considering. “We could eat somewhere other than the living room today. If you like.”

“Where do you suggest?”

“Er, the roof? It might make you feel better to be outside. It’s sunny, and we have a basket.” He lifted it off the wall and ran a hand over it, Vanna-White-style.

He loved those Wheel of Fortune reruns. For a sad, brief moment, she imagined a very old Steve sitting in an armchair, watching Wheel of Fortune in some nursing home. She came back to reality and smiled. “We do, at that.”

“What do you say?”

“I say race you to the top!”

“Well, let me go first. You’ve got a skirt on.” For once, he barely blushed, although he didn’t meet her eye.

“Oh, right. Fair enough.”

She soon found she didn’t mind trading places. As Steve ascended, she allowed herself a guilt-free ogle. Whatever he was doing, it was working.

At the top, they spread out their feast and perched on a raised brick stack. The stone was warm on Natasha’s thighs; she squinted up at the sun and smiled. Steve handed her a lemonade. “Better?”

“Much,” she admitted.

They chatted and ate, watching birds swoop in and flutter down to eat the crumbs they left. After she finished eating, Natasha leaned back on her hands and lifted her face up again. She would probably turn pink instead of the gorgeous golden color that Maria achieved in summertime, but it felt good to be warm and relaxed. Clint and the almost-sort-of-botched mission could wait. For now, there was sun and a rooftop picnic just for her.

“I can see the red in your hair when the sun shines on it. It’s nice.”

Startled, Natasha jerked her head down and met Steve’s eyes. He was standing opposite her, one hand on his hip and the other lazily shading his face. He was smiling, totally unconcerned. He could almost be normal in those cargo shorts and flip-flops. Not to mention her own ugly dress and mary janes. Was this what being a real girl was like? Men just made you picnics and gave you compliments and didn’t worry that you had the capacity to kill them ten different ways with the fork in your hand?

Peggy’s curls flashed in her mind’s eye. “I thought you liked the brown?”

“I do,” Steve nodded sheepishly.  “But the red is…you.”

He bent closer until his hands were splayed flat on the brick; his fingers curled around the edges. Natasha looked back up into his face, which was startlingly close now. They both swallowed; apparently Steve hadn’t anticipated the proximity either. His eyes were squinting slightly in the sunlight, but he didn’t blink. In fact, his pupils dilated.

Natasha inhaled more sharply than she intended to, and suddenly neither of them was smiling. She leaned forward unconsciously, her eyes trailing down to pause at his mouth.

“Me?” she said absently.

Steve leaned forward once more and blocked the sun completely.


	18. The One-Eyed Hen and All His Chicks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a tiny Agents of SHIELD cameo in here. I don't watch the show (I know), so forgive me if I get any aspect of this character wrong--I only gleaned as much as I could from Wikipedia without spoiling myself!

Clint was out the door before they separated.

The celebratory din of the board room had been drowned in his inner panic the moment their lips touched. He only partially heard the victorious whoops and disappointed groans and the jingle of money changing hands. The pressure in his ears and chest had been too intense to ignore and before he could consider it further, he strode out of the screen room and found an empty stairwell; he settled on the top step, head between his knees, to think things over.

Once the initial shock dissipated, Clint felt deflated and strangely satisfied: after all, the Good Guy had won, as expected. For a superstitious moment, Clint blamed his own dumb mind for letting the _hint_ of a _thought_ of surrender regarding Cap cross his mind, but it passed quickly. Clint was a man of action; ideas about “fate” or “destiny” didn’t factor. Natasha just liked Rogers better. Simple.

And not surprising. He and Tasha had been close colleagues for years; there had been plenty of opportunity to make it known if those feelings had occurred to her. (He was unpleasantly reminded by a twist in his gut that he had never made a move either.)

Natasha knew where he stood; he had made it abundantly clear on that rooftop, the very one where she was now, sucking face with Captain Perfect-Pecs. Clint exhaled hard through his nostrils and berated himself silently. This wasn’t the time to get petty.

But still, it was hard to believe that Mr. Honorable himself had really gone and kissed her. Now, Clint realized he had expected the Captain to be too nervous, too pure—he was never _actually_ supposed to land a kiss.

The stairwell door creaked open, revealing a pretty, pink-faced girl in a white lab coat. He recognized her—she had been one of the avid viewers in the screen room just moments before.

_Great. What now? Don’t tell me they pooled the winnings to get me a Match.com account or something._

“Er, excuse me?” She was English. “Director Fury asked me to come find you. He says you have an appointment.”

Clint nodded. “We do.” He stood and approached her. She stared resolutely at his shoulder as he passed. He paused and turned. “Thank you, Agent…?”

The girl’s lips tightened in an embarrassed smile. “Simmons, sir.”

“Right. Thanks, Simmons.”

He attempted a smile, but she had already disappeared back down the research corridor, brown hair whipping behind her.

Fury’s secretary lifted her eyebrows at Clint and wordlessly pressed a button on her telephone.

A terse voice issued from the speaker. “Send him in.”

When Clint entered, A screen was retracting into Fury’s desk; a moment later, the surface was seamless. Clint looked from the desk to Fury’s face, which was trying hard to be stern, but failing due to the amused up-tilt of his lips.

Clint groaned. “Not you, too. At least tell me you bet on me.”

Fury set his eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re here so we can talk about this little stunt you pulled.”

“You mean the one that bagged us the baddie?”

“So the ends justify the means, now, smart guy? How well is that working out for you in your love life? Sit down.”

Clint did so, feeling a shade of childlike embarrassment peek out from under his petulance.

Fury leaned forward, elbows resting on the desktop as the tips of his fingers pressed together. “Look, whatever is going on between you and Agent Romanoff, or you and Cap or whatever—I don’t even want to know—let it go. It has nothing to do with your first priority, which is ensuring the success and continuation of this organization and the justice it serves. That means if you ever let a schoolboy crush endanger a mission again—whether or not it leads to the mission’s success—I will decommission you.”

That startled Clint; he tried to disguise it by staring fixedly at Fury’s eyepatch. “And supposing Agent Romanoff’s and the Captain’s priorities are shifting?”

Fury shot him an “are-you-kidding-me” look. “The day romance becomes Agent Romanoff’s number one priority is the day we’re all building snowmen in Hell.” He stood and walked to the wide window. “I’m nowhere near as worried about her as you seem to be. She’s a big girl.”

“I’m not worried. She’s my best friend.”

“So I hear. But you aren’t exactly acting like one.” Fury turned, hands clasped behind his back. “Barton. Despite my, heh, rough edges, I have an ooey-gooey center when it comes to my best agents.”

Clint couldn’t help smirking. Fury shrugged.

“Believe it or not, I want what’s best for you guys, not only because that means that SHIELD will continue to run at optimum levels, but because I value you all as people—or demi-gods, whatever.” He waved a black-gloved hand and started back to the desk. “At the end of the day, you’re my responsibility. You’re my kids. My highly-trained, capable, incredibly reckless kids. Kids who I’d trust with the nuclear codes, and have.” He sat back down and leveled his cycloptic gaze on Clint. “I hate when my kids fight. I _especially_ hate it when my kids try to play Dad to any of the others. That’s my job and I take it seriously.”

Clint shifted uncomfortably, sensing the direction in which this was heading.

“Natasha is your best friend. She’s your family. But guess what? So is Captain Rogers. You understand that?”

“…yeah.”

“You can’t rely on each other, you can’t expect to trust each other with your _lives_ if you’re pouting about who-kissed-who. Feels a little silly now, doesn’t it?”

“I guess.” Clint exhaled and dipped his chin down, studying his fingernails. It didn’t feel _that_ silly.

“So, are you going to play nice with Romanoff and Rogers? Or am I going to have to ground you?”

Clint smiled wanly and stood, extending his hand for a shake. “I don’t do grounding. I’m your eye in the sky, remember?”

Fury grasped his hand and shook it firmly reaching out to clap Clint on his bulky shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear. So, what happens next?”

“I’ll apologize to Tash—Agent Romanoff and Captain Rogers, then start on the Doctor’s interrogation.”

Fury lifted his eyebrows. “I was just going to say let’s forget the whole thing.”

“Oh.”

“But I like this apology idea. I’ll let them know you’re coming. I’ll lend you a jet.” Fury lifted the telephone receiver and gestured that the meeting had ended. Clint turned to leave. “Oh, and Barton?”

“Yes?”

“For the record, I did bet on you.”


	19. Making Nice, Making Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! Some of you probably caught this on FF.net already because I'm a doofus and was so excited to get this chapter done I just posted it to one site and bolted out the door to get dinner last night. I'm so pleased by the response. Thanks for continuing to return and read, and for reading for the first time! Enjoy!

Natasha couldn’t remember the last time she’d been properly kissed. That is to say, not in conjunction with some mission or some lame ex-fling from her assassin days. Had she ever had a truly innocent kiss before Steve? A kiss that didn’t cause her body to erupt in flames of passion—or worse—of shame.

It was a simple kiss, and short. He didn’t even put his tongue in her mouth. At first.

She shivered. They were in the Good Doctor’s apartment, which was best described as ‘ordered chaos’; every surface was clear, but the shelves and drawers were stuffed and practically creaking with files, books, encyclopedias—including about six copies of Gray’s Anatomy, each a different edition—vintage and modern medical instruments, letters, research and, most intriguingly, a Father’s Day card, signed only ‘Jessica’ in a loopy, tweenage hand. Natasha freed it from its spot on the bulletin board over the massive desk and bagged it, labeling it ‘1-12B’ and laying it on top of the other evidence they had collected thus far.

She and Steve had been working silently around each other all morning. They had until three PM to bag-and-tag the place before they would be escorted to a private jet and taken back to headquarters to start the debriefing. They had surrendered their false identities as soon as they’d walked through the Doctor’s door; Natasha had wondered if forfeiting Ellie meant releasing Alex as well.

Steve’s broad back flexed as he stacked several thick books into a box stamped with the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia. He wouldn’t turn his head all the way, she noticed; perhaps he was afraid of accidentally catching her eye.

The kiss—or kisses, she supposed—had been perfect. It was the part after that which had been the problem. He had pulled away gently, lips shiny—his tongue flicked over his bottom lip for the briefest moment, making her stomach twist—and opened his eyes. Hers were open already, of course, fixing on him with a combination of startled admiration, desire, and uncertainty. The two of them had lingered there for a long moment; he was still awkwardly leaned over the wall she was sat upon, palms splayed against hot brick. He had smiled; she lowered her eyes and could practically feel his shoulders contract with self-consciousness which, in turn, made her heart ache.

“I’m sorry, I—“

“I didn’t mean—“

She looked back up and he was drawing away.

“I’m so sorry. That was incredibly rude of me. Please forgive me.” He was in soldier mode, staring just over her right eyebrow.

She exhaled, opening her hands helplessly. “There’s nothing to forgive. I’m just—”

“You don’t need to explain.” He relaxed, shoulders shrugging, then slumping. “I made a mistake.”

“You didn’t!” She burst out, then pressed her lips together. “I just need a minute.”

He met her eyes again, his gaze softening. “Take all the time you need.” He took the basket and lowered himself, sure and strong, down the ladder.

Once she was sure he was back in the apartment and out of earshot, she put her head in her hands and groaned. “You _idiot_. Like a teenager. Боже!”

They didn’t exchange more than cordialities for the rest of the afternoon and evening.

 _What held me back?_ she wondered, sorting through a massive stash of encoded files on the Doctor’s hard drive. Steve was polite, kind, handsome, a good kisser—many things she hadn’t experienced in years. Even more unsettling, she was usually direct when it came to men. Why couldn’t she just talk to him now and hash things out?

Steve’s voice, steady and low, interrupted her thoughts. “I’m going to get started on the kitchen.”

Natasha glanced up, feeling like she’d been caught in the act—whatever act that was. “Okay. I’m almost finished here. Do you want help?”

He blinked. “If you like.”

~

Steve went about his business in the kitchen, his head occasionally ducking past the doorframe to glance at her, his nervous fidgeting contrasting sharply with his sleek, SHIELD-issued gear. When she rose to join him, he met her eyes for a moment, then averted his own, jaw working.

 _Idiot,_ he thought, opening the pantry and shuffling through its contents, trying not to be too aware of Natasha’s body behind him—she was at least six inches away, but it was like she was giving off some kind of wave that was making his skin buzz. Russia had a lot of nuclear zones, right? Was it radiation she picked up over there?

His shoulders sagged; he felt like he was one-ten soaking wet all over again. _Idiot,_ he repeated inwardly.

“So,” Natasha began. He tensed. “I’ll take the fridge.”

“Go for it.” They worked in silence for nearly ten minutes, removing tiny bugs from behind cabinetry and within half-empty boxes of cereal. One particularly-clever hiding spot for a pea-sized camera was in the glass eye of a sculpted dolphin magnet from SeaWorld.

“He’s good,” Steve observed, as he bagged the resin sea creature. “But I guess that’s why he got away for so long. He must have thought someone would be snooping.”

Natasha shook her head and added, almost unconsciously, “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

He fixed on her from the corner of his eye. “My mom used to say that.”

“Your mom was a smart lady.”

“She was.” He smiled, then inhaled deeply, steeling himself. “Look, Nat, I’m sorry.”

Her arm stilled ever-so-briefly in midair before she stashed a suspicious-looking pill bottle in one of the Ziploc bags. “You said that yesterday.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry for being so…standoffish. I’ve been a real dope.”

Natasha smirked. “Oh yeah, _daddio_?”

Steve tilted his head back and exhaled. “Shut up.” But his mouth curled up.

She gave him a sidelong look, considering. “I’m sorry, too. I panicked.”

“I noticed that, funnily enough.”

She shrugged. “I have a…complicated history. I don’t just get to kiss the men I like.” She considered this statement, then put her hands up in supplication. “I don’t get to kiss men I _like_.”

Unbidden, Peggy flashed through Steve’s mind, red lips curving prettily. He closed his eyes to squeeze her out and felt a flare of anger; anger at the passage of time, at his own terrible timing in the past and present, at red women who were too old, too young, simultaneously close and out-of-reach.

“No,” he allowed. “You usually kill them after, right? You’re the Black Widow, after all.” A few weeks before, in the warmth of domesticity, it could have been a joke, but the bitter, pointed delivery belied his frustration.

Natasha shook her head, smiling tightly. “Like I’ve never heard that one before. And look who’s talking! I saw your file— _actually_ born on the Fourth of July?” She stuffed the last few samples into her duffel bag and hoisted it over her shoulder.

“I had no control over that—”

“And neither did I.”

Steve shut his mouth, embarrassed. He should have known better than to use Natasha’s past against her; no one except Fury knew the details, but it was plain that it had not been a pleasant childhood.

“Look,” Natasha continued, crossing her arms. “We both had tough pasts that shaped the way we deal with closeness now. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, but it’s probably going to make things complicated if we continue to dance around it.”

He exhaled heavily and nodded his agreement; she was right. “So. What do we do?”

“I…don’t know, actually.”

“We could—“ Steve caught himself. _Wishful thinking, Rogers._

“We could what?”

“We could…you know. Not dance around it.” Before he could stop himself, he was drifting toward her, one hand hovering near her elbow.

Natasha’s eyebrows lifted, as well as the corners of her mouth. “Oh, could we?”

“I’m not trying to pull anything—“ His shoulders sagged slightly and he took a half-step back. “It’s just nice. The kissing.”

“It is nice,” Natasha agreed, peering through her lashes.

Maybe it didn’t have to be anything more than nice. _Nice_ was uncomplicated. _Nice_ was a mutual acknowledgement; mutual closeness. Steve met her gaze head-on now, a far cry from the uncertain rookie spy he had been a few weeks before, the one who blushed at the sight of her in her pajamas; who averted his eyes when her blouse rode up when she stretched. Now, his eyes tried to take her in at once, but he could only look at bits of her: her ear, her hairline, the tilt of her jaw, her mouth parting. Her hands finding his shoulders and her turned-up nose coming closer. It had a tiny, reddish freckle on the bridge…

There was a polite-but-insistent rapping on the Good Doctor’s front door. Steve and Natasha froze, eyes locked on the door, whose peephole seemed to stare like an accusing eye.

“Wait.” Natasha’s face relaxed. “It’s our transport.”

They exhaled together and locked eyes again. Natasha pouted, obviously disappointed. “To be continued?”

Steve smoothed a dyed-brown curl behind her ear and, taking her hand from his arm, laced their fingers together. She grinned back and pulled him to the door. She twisted the knob with her other hand and pulled it towards her.

Clint was waiting on the other side, dressed in slacks and a tie. His eyes dropped straight to their joined hands. “Is this a bad time?”


	20. Hat in Hand, Hand Over Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint gets his head out of his ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the worst. The WOOORST, and I know this. I have real-life, Big-Girl job in publishing now so this has gone woefully un-updated, but the bittersweet news is that there's only one chapter left, and you guys will have a complete fanfic and will never have to wait on my glacial ass ever again. I swear to God it will not be another year between updates. (Oh my GOD how has it been a year?! I am a horrible person.)
> 
> Either way, so much love to the people that have been reading this from the start. I literally can't believe this story is over two (!) years old. Thanks for sticking with me. This whole story has been in service of the wonderful, wonderful fans, and I love when you love it. Love you.

They were holding hands.  _Holding hands._

"You guys have a really weird sense of romance, I have to say." Clint tried to access Tony's offhanded-but-slightly-biting tone, but he could hear the traitorous tightness in his voice-his shoulders had jumped up by his ears. "This guy did pretty horrible things in this apartment. Not exactly the kind of thing that puts me in the mood."

They had the good grace to drop their grasp, but Clint saw both of them run their thumbs over the inside of their fingers, tracing the warmth of the other's hand. Jealousy flared hot in his face and neck, but, underneath, he felt a strange murmur of appreciation for that tenderness.

Natasha caught him looking at her hand and crossed her arms. "What are you doing here, exactly?"

"Did Fury not mention I was coming?"

"He did, but he didn't say why. I just assumed you wanted to gloat."

That stung. "I'm not here to gloat." He peered down at the threshold. "Can I come in?"

Natasha pursed her lips."Be my guest. I'm just going to get some air." She glanced at Steve, then slid around Clint without touching him and marched down the stairs. Steve and Clint watched her back until she was out of sight.

"She'll be all right," Steve offered impassively. "She just needs to cool off."

"I know. I actually know her pretty well,  _Captain_."

Steve blinked. "Why are you here?"

"Didn't we just go over that? Fury said he was sending word that I was coming-"

"No, we knew that part. I mean, why are you HERE. We're in the middle of a tag-and-tow at a crime scene. Why not meet us at our apartment?"

_We knew_ , Clint's brain echoed.  _Our apartment._  "I just wanted to expedite things."

Steve's eyebrows lifted, prompting.

Clint pushed the mounting jealousy away and imagined Fury's expectant face instead. "I wanted to apologize, in fact."

Steve nodded, considering, and extended his hand. "Accepted."

Cint stared at the outstretched hand. "C'mon man, you can't do that."

"Do what?" Steve frowned. "I'm accepting your apology."

Clint put his hands up and stalked past Steve into the apartment. "I know! You didn't even say a word, just accepted it without question. That is so LIKE YOU, Captain Jawline. Such a good boy."

Steve peered into the hallway and, when he didn't see Natasha, closed the door. "I'm not sure what you want me to do, Clint. I don't want to fight you. I don't want to make this any more complicated than it already has been. I mean, imagine if this got back to SHIELD. We don't want something like this disrupting the headquarters."

Clint had to smirk. "It's a little late for that."

"What do you mean?"

"You know your apartment was under surveillance right? It was SHIELD's own personal As The World Turns. They took bets."

Steve covered his face and groaned. "They didn't."

"They did." Clint paused. "Fury bet on me."

"Thanks." Steve's voice was heavy with irony.

"Banner bet on you. Ten bucks."

"That's all?!" Steve feigned indignance. Clint returned the smile and, after a moment, they broke eye contact, staring awkwardly around at the dismantled apartment.

"Look, I don't want to fight you, either. Well, I do, but we both know I'd lose spectacularly in a fair fight. I'm no boxer, and I'd like to keep my own substandard jaw intact." Clint picked a bungee cord out of a packing box and twiddled it absently so he wouldn't have to meet Steve's eyes. "I just...I care a lot about Tash, you know. We've been partners since Budapest, and it's hard to see her get close to someone new. Her good opinion is valuable. I'm sure you know that. Any guy feels special to get it. I guess-ugh this is so  _stupid_ -I just wanted to be the only guy." He ducked his head, embarrassed. How teenage could he be right now? Natasha wasn't some cheerleader, and he wasn't some nerd awaiting the favor of her smile. He was a soldier for God's sake.

"That is...very understandable." Steve exhaled, leaning one beefy shoulder against the wall. "I can't replace you, Clint. You're Natasha's best friend. We're both lucky enough to have her friendship. Just maybe in different ways than we expected. Than I expected, for certain."

This was probably true, and all the more annoying. Captain Cleft-chin didn't even have to TRY to endear himself to anyone-it just happened. Clint had a sneaking suspicion it was happening to him right now.

"If Natasha had to pick any of us, she went with the right guy. I trust you to treat her well. But just so you know, Maria is the number one girl and the number one overall. She could kick both our asses."

"That's fair. Also, you keep a mental list of Natasha's potential matches within the Avengers?"

"Only since this mission began."

"And Tony is-?"

"Dead last."

"As long as we're agreed."

Finally, they shook hands.

"Well, isn't this sweet?"

Both men jumped; they hadn't even heard the door open. Natasha's upper body was peeking in from the hallway and she was grinning.

"How long have you been standing there?" Clint asked.

"Long enough." She entered the apartment and stood between the men, her hands on her hips. "Have we kissed and made up?"

"You missed the kiss," Steve joked.

"Aw, darn!" Natasha snapped, brows furrowed. "Steve, would you mind giving me a minute with my friend here?"

Steve nodded. "Not at all. I'll just...go for a walk." He left, throwing such a fleeting wink that Clint wasn't sure he'd seen it at all.

Natasha closed the door behind Steve and turned back to Clint, studying his face. "Contrite is a good look on you, Barton."

"Hopefully I don't have to pull it out too often from now on,  _Romanoff._ "

"Agreed," she said lightly.

"I really am sorry. I was a macho idiot."

"Yes, but I know it's because you care, in your weirdo way. I forgive you." She took his hand and squeezed it, then peered up at him, her green eyes serious. "Just don't do it again, please."

Clint squeezed back. "I won't. Thanks."

It was simultaneously stupid and wonderful, Clint thought, that it could be as easy as that.

Natasha linked her arm through his and steered him back towards the door. "So, did you bring some big strong agents to haul this stuff out of here so we don't have to?"

"You know I did."

"This is why I love you. Let's go. And I think we should talk about this mental list you have going..."


	21. Walking the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ending, in three parts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL remember when I said it wouldn't be a year between updates? lol
> 
> I suck.
> 
> BUT the good news is that this fic is now officially complete. Thank you all for your kind words, encouragement, and interest. My next project is a novel-length study of a much-maligned Potterverse character: Peter Pettigrew. I have been writing this story for honestly years, and I'm excited to show you what I have so far. I hope you take a moment to check out the first chapter and hopefully the rest, as it comes!  
> Thanks again! Hope you guys have enjoyed this ride.

_Three Weeks Later_

"And...strike!"

Clint and Natasha lunged for each other, with Steve overseeing the match. Clint had been initially skeptical of letting Captain Cleft-chin observe their sparring sessions, but he had to admit, Steve had an eye for technique. He'd been an artist or something, Natasha had said, and sketching ballerinas had given him some kind of sense of anatomy, timing, effect. He knew what a body could do and not do.

Cap's annoyingly spot-on instincts didn't even bother Clint that much anymore. In fact, they were almost helpful. Who'da thunk?

Admittedly, the first few days back at base had been a little weird: imagine anyone from interns to upper-level researchers dodging suddenly around corners and into supply closets when Steve, Natasha, or Clint would appear. No one wanted to admit to watching, with rapt fascination, the events of the last few months play out, or to placing bets on them, and certainly no one wanted to get caught staring by Nick Fury, who tended to be hovering close by.

But things smoothed out over time: they were professionals after all.

After the session, Clint tore off his gloves and stuffed them in his bag. He glanced up; Natasha and Steve were chatting and packing up their own gear. Tash bent over and absently pulled a long hair off of Steve's shoulder mid-sentence, flicking it away without missing a beat. It twinged a little, Clint had to admit, but there was warmth, too.

He supposed it would be a long time before that twinge went away. Maybe it never would. Maybe every twinge was a reminder to access the priority of partnership over individual satisfaction: any handicap can be accounted for and over-corrected. That was Clint's expertise.

His friend Natasha caught his eye over her shoulder and smiled. Clint smiled back.

~

_My boys,_ Natasha smirked. It was both comic and heartwarming to watch the two of them draw closer in these recent weeks. Steve, true to form, had embraced Clint's place in Natasha's life and was gamely working to forge an understanding, at the very least, if not a bond. Clint was making an effort, too: he had offered to coach Steve on the basics of archery, which was both an opportunity to show off in front of Steve as well as a genuine offer of friendship. ("Wow Barton, you gonna propose marriage next? Should I step aside?" "Shut up, Tash.")

As far as she and Steve were concerned, well...

They hadn't talked about what it meant: the hand-holding, the movie nights, the kisses at the door. They didn't talk about it; they just did it. And that was okay, wasn't it?

Steve and Clint trailed behind on the way out of the training center. Steve was gesturing at Clint, explaining some maneuver. "All I'm saying is, if you stop forcing the pivot, your center of gravity will naturally carry you into the turn so you can focus your energy and attention on your upper body."

Clint paused in the parking lot and ghosted the motion, feeling the correction as he considered this. "Fine. Thanks."

Natasha smiled. "You'll be doing pirouettes in no time, Barton.".

"Don't act like you don't want to see me in a tutu, Tash."

Steve chuckled at Clint, who was affecting a very ungraceful third position. "You coming to dinner Friday or what? Even Tony'll be there."

"Don't tell me you can cook, too, Golden Boy."

"Cook, yes. Entertain? Ehhh... Don't expect the grandeur of Stark Tower is all I'm saying."

"Thank God. Count me in." Clint smirked sideways at Natasha, who laughed in spite of herself and squeezed his shoulder. "See you two tomorrow?"

"Not if I see you first," Steve smiled, putting a hand out to shake, then turning to Natasha. "Ready?"

She met his eyes. "Ready."

They slid into the car and Steve checked the mirrors. "What do you think? Chinese or Indian?"

"Hmmm...I'm thinking Greek, actually." She put her hand on his.

He squeezed hers and smiled to himself. "Souvlaki it is." 

What did it mean when a boy remembered your favorite order? Was it selfish to enjoy the feeling it gave her? Of being cared for, taken care of? Was this what it felt like to look forward to the unknown?

It was so exciting to surrender.

~

Friendship was not a new sensation. Neither was romance. But when duty had been the reigning impulse for so long, it was easy for intimacy to feel startlingly new.

Every time her hand covered his on the drive shaft; every time he ordered her favorite dish without having to check; every time he watched her laugh at an old movie, it surprised him.

Natasha's hair was red again. The mission was officially over, but here she was next to him, suggesting desserts for his dinner party. The dinner party she had encouraged him to throw.

"Your apartment is like a little sterile barracks. You've gotta get some life in there."

"Gee, thanks." He had resisted, at first, but she had appealed to his vanity and, truthfully, to his loneliness.

"I just want you to show everyone else a little glimpse of what I've seen. It would be good for you. You don't have to be Mr. Stiff-Upper-Lip all the time. Just put the apron on and make these people some lasagna for crying out loud. If it makes you feel better, you can think of it as a team-building exercise."

So he'd agreed, and he was making lasagna.

Steve thought about Peggy and missed opportunities and bad timing. It twinged, but it was less like a needle-sharp sear than the dull ache of an old war wound. So much time had passed.

Then Natasha's thumbnail scratched over his knuckle and here he was: in the driver's seat, in the moment.


End file.
